Cedrik Baratheon
by TheKulthanOrder
Summary: Cedrik is a boy of almost four and ten in 281 AC. He is a squire for Gulian Swann, lord of Stonehelm, and third eldest of the Baratheon brothers. But trouble is fast arising on the horizon, and Cedrik must make difficult choices if he wishes to live through the rebellion.
1. Cedrik

Chapter I

Cedrik Baratheon stood for a moment, looking about. The wedding of Marric Penrose to Gaena Caron was under way, though he would not go unless Gulian had made him. Marric was Gulian Swanns cousin by his mother's sister, and of course Gulian would make him go. His elder brother by five years, Stannis, and his eldest brother Robert were going to the Harrenhal tourney held by the Whents, the biggest tourney in the history of Westeros! He was sullen while they had made their way down the road to the castle of Parchments, but Gulian had given him a swat on the ear and told him to not be sullen about it, that the tourneys were all just summer knights coming out to play.

Cedrik supposed that was right, anyways. But he was still mad about it. Sometimes it seemed the gods hated him and his family. Being born the third son of a Lord Paramount was great, sure. But his parents were dead by the time he was nearing seven namedays, for Seven's sake!

He was almost a man grown. Just three more namedays and he would be knighted and likely given a small bit of land in the Stormlands. He frowned, then. Poor Renly. The fourth son, even of a Great Lord, would either have to marry into a title or - uch, go to the Wall, where not just hands froze off up there. The Northmen were a savage folk who worshipped trees, no less! He was surprised Robert was friends with that Northron man, Reddard or Ned or something.

 _Oh, well._ Cedrik couldn't dwell on that too long, the first bouts of dancing were starting up. He turned and looked around, watching the men and women who were bawdy enough to dance stomp about to _The Bear and Maiden Fair_. He decided then that he would try his best to go dull as a cow for the rest of the night, though if Gulian caught on to that he'd give him a swat on the side of the head.

After the wedding was over, Cedrik and Gulian made their way down the road at a slow pace, Gulian still recovering from the three cups of wine he had the night before. "You were good last night. Still sullen, I suppose, but you were not rude or impolite, at least. You caught the attention of a few young ladies as well, you know." Gulian smirked at his comment before stoppung himself, almost immediately getting a dull throb in his head from moving so fast. Cedrik perked up a little. "You are certain of this?" He grinned a little to himself but stopped himself from doing anything too foolish. Gulian nodded his head slowly, as though he were trying to sneak past a watchful crow. Cedrik's grin widened and he put a little more step to his horse. "Well, you know, I am a man who attracts all the women, not unlike a certain eldest brother of mine." Cedrik smirked at his little jest.

They arrived back at Stonehelm after a time, and both men were utterly exhausted from the trip, even though it took little more than three or four days to move along the road back to Stonehelm. Cedrik rested well that first day, falling into his bed from near exhaustion. The next day he got up near the hour of the rooster, waking up and yawning before donning his padded doublet and putting on his pants and socks. The put on his boots and laced up his trousers before exiting into the yard, where Gulian was waiting. "Good, you are up. We must train now. You are getting better, but better is not great. Now, let us begin the practice, mm?" Cedrik nodded silently, preparing for the bruises and soreness to come. "First, I will have you take this bag of sand here, pull it over your shoulder lad. Now, run across this field with this bag of sand ten times!" Cedrik groaned but began to run, his legs pounding away at the ground at first but by the time he was at the tenth return he could barely walk. He tossed the bag of sand down and near collapsed, somehow managing not to.

"Good! Now pick up the sword. I am going to teach you endurance, lad. You need to be able to fight off many enemies for hours at a time even if you are exhausted, or you will die in battle. Now! Put up your sword!" Cedrik was exhausted, but he found the strength to pull his sword into position parrying a few strikes here and there before finally Gulian cried, "No! No, this won't work! You've lost all your endurance, Cedrik! Ah, that's enough swordfighting for today. Go off and do your lessons with the Maester, lad." Cedrik was grateful for the reprieve, already sore and aching from the exercise. He made his way into the keep stealing off to the kitchens to grab himself a roll of bread and a bit of butter for it. He snacked on it in near silence, and when he was done he patted his hands on his trousers to get the butter off before making his way up the stairs swiftly to begin his lessons with Maester Crowell. Perhaps next week if Gulian was feeling kindly, he could go to Storm's End and visit Stannis and Renly.


	2. Marcos

Marcos Yronwood sat upon the horse, shifting upon it every other moment, looking about. His lord, Oberyn Martell, was sat upon his horse as well. Elia was shortly behind, her two ladies in waiting - the ever beautiful Ashara Dayne and the lady Meria Wyl on her right hand side. Marcos shifted clumsily in his saddle, looking around. Harrenhal was slowly becoming larger, looming and ugly. It sat there, black charred stone and broken towers not fitting the bright cheerfulness of the tourney. Rhaegar and his party were further back, discussing… something. Oberyn grinned and turned to his squire. "Well, Marcos, we are nearly to the Castle of gloom and doom." Oberyn turned to him with that gleam in his eye that made him… uncomfortable. He shifted in his saddle again and averted his gaze, his cheeks turning crimson. His father had warned him of Oberyn's… passions, but he was still not used to it. While Dorne was quite lax in that area, he preferred sheathes to swords, for lack of a better phrase.

He was the thirdborn of Ormond Yronwood, he would gain no lands from his family in the future, not with his brother Anders already having children. This was, in essence, his best chance to gain any fame, fortune or lands. He sighed and put his horse to a trot, speeding up a bit so he could reach the tourney faster.

When they finally reached Harrenhal twenty turns of a small hourglass later, Marcos grunted and continued on his way through the gate. Oberyn was jesting with one of his household guards about something, and Marcos turned away, looking at the smallfolk enjoying their day. Blacksmiths peddling their wares, a puppet show where a lion battled a wolf near a stream where a trout swam, and the smallfolk were holding a small dance. He kept going, continuing along. He saw lord's great and small streaming into the Hall of a Hundred Hearths for the welcome feast. Turning back to gaze at the cluster of Dornish Lords who he had arrived with, he waited for Oberyn to catch up so he might do his squirely duties of taking the horses to the stables.

Oberyn caught up momentarily, grinning at his squire. Marcos looked onwards. "Well, my lord, shall I take the horses away?" Oberyn turned to look at his squire, his gaze taking a few moments too long. "Of course, Marcos. Swiftly, I expect we shall have to be off to have quite a feast ahead of us." Oberyn dismounted in one fluid motion, landing on his feet and entering the feast hall. He stopped at the door. "I expect you will find me underneath the banner of mine own house, unless…" He trailed off, but Marcos caught the meaning and looked away, his cheeks flaring as red as a strawberry from the Reach. He grabbed the reigns of both horses and walked carefully away, looking up at the mighty Sand Steed in his ownership. His instinct told him to run off with both horses and make a new life of his own, but only momentarily.

He entered the stables and pointed at one of the stableboys. "I believe you know what to do with these two." He handed the reigns to the boy and pulled out a single copper, tossing it to him. He was making his way out when he saw two figures in dark mottled cloaks speaking. "You must do this and fast. Your father's arrival means nothing if we can swiftly do this, my lord. He considered following but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. "You are dealing in things that are above your measure, boy. Just go back inside." he nodded his head and retreated inside, where the feast was merrily making its way along. The Stag banner was above a jovial tall man with a handsome face and a stout chest. Under the Wolf banner some siblings were arguing about something with a couple of the siblings and their father standing nearby, watching on with interest.

Marcos turned his head and looked at the most prominent banner, evidently a masterwork tapestry; the banner was of a blood red dragon on an onyx background, the eyes of the banner looking at him, nay, through him. He shuddered and searched for another moment, finding the banner of the sun being pierced, with only a few people under the banner, and Oberyn was obviously missing. A cursory glance showed him talking to a comely blonde man. Turning away he approached the Martell table, bowing respectfully to Elia, Doran, and their mother.

"Marcos, a pleasure to see you. How fares your father?" Doran said, looking at him kindly. "Quite well indeed. I hope you find this feast quite excellent, my Prince." Doran bowed his head in thanks and Marcos looked off, watching the folk dancing. He looked about and spied a pretty lass of Dornish origin. He made his way over to her swiftly. "A good feast, I would say. May I ask your name?" She turned to him when she heard him talking and smiled. "I am Nymeria Sand." He smiled and nodded his head in acknowledgement. "A fierce name, indeed. Care for a dance, my lady?" She nodded her head, and he took her hand, dancing the night away…

He awoke hours later with a dull headache, which surprised him. He only had three… four… six cups of watered wine, though Dornish Red was stronger than most, he reckoned. He got up groggily and moved slowly, his head pounding. The tourney was going in full force, the clash of steel resounding through the grand yard. Marcos dressed quickly and entered the courtyard. He found Oberyn quickly and looked at the yard. Oberyn was already ready, his bronze ringmail glimmered in the sun and his conical helmets ribbon fluttering in the wind. "A good day for riding, Marcos. Perhaps today you can participate in your first tourney, mmm?" Marcos nodded his head without question and looked at the mighty destriers.


	3. Cedrik II

_Cedrik_

Cedrik sat in the small garden of Stonehelm. There was a small pond, nothing really compared to the froth and crash of the seas, but it gave him a strange sense of comfort, considering how far inland he was - a few leagues, but he missed the sea. He picked up the great oaken shield and held it carefully. Picking up the brush, he began to scrub vigorously. Holding it up in the waning sunlight, he nodded in satisfaction. Picking up the set of plate armor, he placed first the breastplate in the sand and began to scour it. The process was slow, and honestly a nuisance, but when he had complained Gulian had told him it would 'build character and strength' whatever in the Seven hells that meant.

When the sunlight was beginning to eke out it's last few rays for the day, Cedrik finished up, with no small amount of relief. Perhaps he could catch the last dregs of dinner afore Gulian sent him off to sleep. _Why do I have to go to my bedchambers so early?_ He scowled at that thought and put the sword he had been polishing in the pile, crossing his arms. He didn't want to do this stupid squiring thing, but Stannis had insisted. He wished Robert were back from the Vale, he would have treated Cedrik better. At least one day he would be knighted, perhaps given a keep to hold by Robert. He would have his own gleaming set of armor, and his own squire to do all the stupid chores for him. For a glorious and brave knight like him, he would ride off in tourneys, clashing lances with the likes of Arthur Dayne and Barristan the Bold, fighting in great battles and winning glory.

He was so caught up in his thoughts he hardly heard Gulian tromp up to him. "You're late for dinner, lad. You'll need the food if you're going to grow, so come along. I trust you did scour my armor and polish my weapons?" Gulian looked down at him over the bridge of his nose, squinting. Cedrik scowled and looked up at him, meeting his stare for three, four moments, before he averted his gaze finally. "Yes, my Lord." Gulian nodded his head satisfied and looked up. "You may think these things I am making you do are stupid. In truth, I hope my fears to be but folly. Unfortunately for you and I and the realm as a whole, the state of relations is fast deteriorating. I am no master of the whispers, but from what I hear, the King and the Prince are having difficulties, which may turn into war. These training regimens and the lot are for our welfare."

Cedrik paused to take that in. "Truly?" Gulian nodded his head without any eagerness. "Truly." Cedrik paused for a moment. "If this war were to come… who would you fight for?" Gulian paused, looking about. "I would fight for whomever my liege lord fights for, of course. Though… I do favor Rhaegar." Cedrik nodded, understanding it. He was a bit scared, but also excited for the prospect of fighting in a war. "Well, come along then, lad. You've got a good distance to walk back to the castle." Cedrik nodded, feeling this was not as stupid as before. "Let me gather up your items, my Lord." Gulian nodded, heading off down the path. Cedrik gathered up the plate armor and shield into a burlap bag, strapping on the sword. It made him feel like a true and proper knight. He made his way along the path, the night beginning to come forth from the east.

"Stop right there, pretty boy, or I'll knock yer teef right out." A short pale man exited from a particularly thick wooded, a rusted knife in hand. "Hand over all them shiny armor and sword and the like, might be I _won't_ mash your face into a pulp." Cedrik turned and looked at the man. Dropping the sack of armor and the shield, he unsheathed the sword as quick as he could. The robber charged at him, swinging with his knife. Cedrik used his arm to hit the mans wrist, stopping him from impaling his neck. The knife seemed to move slow as molasses as it moved upwards, piercing lightly into his face. The knife felt like it was cleaving through his face. The knife exited then, and as hot blood began to soak out of the wound and into his left eye, he stabbed at the man. Just as quick as it had started, the man was dead. He slumped over onto Cedrik, and Cedrik, coughing an holding a hand to his face shoved him off. Collapsing into the mud, he groaned and searched for a moment. Grabbing at his tunic, he ripped off a long strip and applied it to the wound. Resheathing the sword and picking up the armor, he held the rag to his face and walked. He stumbled and tripped,landing on the ground. Picking himself up and grasping at the sack, he heard footsteps. Tensing up, he grasped at his sword and looked up. Gulian was running towards him. "Cedrik! Cedrik, what in the seven hells happened, boy?" Cedrik opened his mouth to talk, swayed, and crumpled to the ground, passing out.

Cedrik was in the woods, grazing on grass. Wait, this wasn't right. He looked up and saw an ancient tree, white as winter with an angry face upon it. It's trunk was as wide as three men, and the branches bore red leaves the color of blood. "You? You do not belong in this story. No, no, your existence.. All wrong. You could cause my successor to remain unborn. No, You must leave. Leave! Now!" A crow squawked from the branches, angry. "Leave!" It fluttered from the branches, squawking angrily, pecking at him. He turned, tried to run, but he was running on all fours, and his head was so heavy! He ran through a landscape of such a wintry manner that it seemed as if the sixth hell itself had manifested.

He saw images he understood not, a brown haired boy speaking to a robed woman in red. He saw a boy with a crown of bronze and iron sitting upon a throne, but his head was that of a wolf. He saw a white haired lass with pretty violet eyes surrounded by three dragons. He saw a host of men with no shadows and black hands before a looming structure he could not see... and then he saw Stonehelm in the distance and he awoke, gasping for breath.

Maester Borrel turned towards him from where he had been mashing herbs into a paste and paused. "Cedrik! You are awake. You suffered quite a nasty wound, lad. Unfortunately for you, I must reapply this paste and give you new bandages. It will be somewhat painful, but it is necessary for the wound to heal." Cedrik nodded his head, a dull throb in his head pounding away. Maester Borrel grabbed some new cloth and unwrapped his head, the bandage sticky with some remnants of blood.

Borrel took a bit of the paste in his fingers and applied it to his wound, causing a sting in Cedrik's face. Cedrik squinted and grabbed at the bed he had been sleeping on. Borrel finished and applied the cloth bandage to the side of his head. "You are quite lucky, lad. Had the knife gone just a little to the right, you would be blind in that eye." Cedrik nodded his head. "Maester Borrel, may I leave now? I feel for the most part fine, and I want to get back up and about." Maester Borrel paused at that, considering it, before nodding his head and shooing him with his hand. "Come back to me in three turns of an hourglass so I can check your bandages."

Cedrik was pleased with that and near sprinted downstairs, almost tripping. After that he moved slower, getting used to his head. He exited the Maester's Tower and went across the way, entering the kitchens through a back door he had discovered a couple weeks before. Moving underfoot and ignoring the whispers of the cooks and their assistants about his scar, Cedrik snatched up a couple of rolls and a few pieces of bacon, heading into the hall to eat. The cooks did not stop him, just watching. "Baratheon" "Scar" "n's squire" and other whispers were quite audible, and he ignored them all the same.

The hall was of an average size, just as Stonehelm was. The oak table could not have been more than three average sized men long. There were eight chairs, with the Lord's chair being the most prominent. The lighting in the room was mostly windows at the top of the hall, but a couple of braziers still burned from the night before. In the front of the hall six tables were placed at the side of the room.

He sat where he regularly sat and began to eat. Gulian entered from the front door, flanked by the captain of the guards. "Cedrik, excellent. It is good to see you up. Alen, you have my leave." The captain left and Gulian sat down in the Lord's seat. "I have news you may wish to hear, lad. Your brother sends words from the tourney of Harrenhal." Gulian grabbed the letter from his belt and handed it to Cedrik.

 _Little Brother_

 _Things are going well here. I've won a good few tilts, but the melee today was where I shone. I took down all the others and won a mighty prize indeed. Stannis sends his regards too. I hope all is well with you and Gulian. I hope to tilt against Rhaegar, maybe knock some humility into that family of his!_

 _Robert Baratheon_


End file.
